“Give me the pad,” said Cicely.
Once more the writing materials changed hands. . . .
Sitting a little behind her, Toby frowned into the distance,
thoughtfully pulling his moustache and stealing an occasional glance at
the slim brown hand which was steadily driving the pencil across the
grey-blue sheet.
Presently his eyes climbed to the exquisite face. . . .
There they rested.
This is not surprising. The man was human. And at that moment Cicely
Berwick Voile was a sight for the high gods.
The girl was always beautiful. Her features and colouring alone
established that. Hers was the gay, fresh beauty of Nature herself. It
argued the Spring in her blood. She was radiant, eager. The expectation
of her mouth, the light in her big brown eyes were living, breathing
glories that lifted up the heart. But now my lady was grown pensive. She
had exchanged her ‘meadows trim, with daisies pied’ for ‘the studious
cloister’s pale.’ Mirth sat in Melancholy’s seat, adorning that cold
throne as never did its mistress. Her serious mien, the droop of her
precious lips, the way she would fling up her head to gaze for an
instant seawards while she sought for a phrase—her breathless, glowing
charm, plunged for the moment into the dignity of thought, made an
arresting picture. Rage had not seen her like this. Few people had. This
was as well. Heaven knows, she was dangerous enough. Amaryllis weaving a
garland sends your heart to your mouth. But Amaryllis contemplative,
pacing the garden of Philosophy, shall send the blood to your head.
Miss Voile turned suddenly to meet her companion’s eyes.
Instantly both looked away—Toby at the parcel of chestnuts, and the
girl at the broom by her side.